


Still Here

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Phone Convo, Thinking About Making It a Series, UST, another one, post-orison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:03:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: Scully is having a bit of trouble reclaiming her independence after the events of Orison. Mulder is called and he comes to the rescue.





	Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my Beta peacenik0. Great love to you.

_Running. She’s running. The water is running. There’s no escape. He’s here. He’s here._

 

_“Who does your nails, Girly Girl?”_

 

_Pinned down; the pressure on her head and shoulders pressing her bones into the cold hard floor. The stench of his breath. Sin and damnation leaking from his every pore. She steeps in it. Tainting her, staining the depths of her soul._

 

_Suffocating. Sinking. Deeper and deeper. The tub is overflowing._

 

_“I’m going to run you a bath…”_

 

_There’s purchase. She rises against him. Striking him down, only to have her feet swept out from under her. The sickening sensation of falling, falling, falling…_

 

_He has her again. This time his hold clutches beyond her skin; through to the muscle and bone. She’s frozen. Restrained by his lifeless gaze. His eyes black. Fixed. Empty. Sinister. Swallowing her vision whole._

 

_“See you in hell, Girly Girl.”_

 

Bolting upright on a strangled cry, she is ripped from her nightmare.

 

She dials blindly; fingers flying over the buttons with practiced ease. Gasping. His hands are still around her neck. _Breathe. Just breathe!_

 

“Scully?”

 

“Muh— _God--_ “ Her body seizes, desperately requiring oxygen.

 

“It was a dream. You’re safe,” he speaks slowly, softly, sweetly. “Deep breaths.”

 

Mulder carries on, murmuring a constant stream of support. He is full of care and compassion, allowing her to settle back down to Earth. Pieces of reality are slowly slipping back into place.

 

“Doing better, Scully?”

 

“I—yes. Yeah. Uh, how’d you know it was me,” she finishes lamely. Still uncertain of how this goes. Her breathing hasn’t quite slowed to a comfortable rate. The conscious and unconscious mind still mingling and conjuring disturbing images.

 

“It’s nearly three-thirty in the morning; call it a hunch.” There’s a beat. She slips her eyes closed and imagines him laying on his couch. “Have you been sleeping since the last time we talked?”

 

“Yeah.” Neither of them believe her noncommittal sigh. Her brain struggles to keep track of the truth and the lies. He already knows; she gives in. “N-not really. I woke back up. I slept an hour or so.”

 

Listening closely, she can hear the hum of his fish tank.

 

“Hm. You take any of those sleep aids they gave you?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“You telling me the truth?”

 

“Isn't that my line?” He chuckles softly at her playful remark.

 

She sinks back into the couch pillows. The dull chatter of a Tae-Bo spokesman draws her attention to the flashing screen.

 

“You on the couch?”

 

“Yeah. You?”

 

“Of course. But, Scully,” he clears his throat. “You always sleep better in the bed.” There’s a stifle of a yawn.

 

“I-I know.”

 

“Why don’t you turn off the TV and go to bed?”

 

“Why don’t _you_?”

 

“Because I’m a pro.” Mulder’s lame ribbing falls flat. “C’mon, Scully. Turn it off.”

 

Bitter indignation catches hold in her chest. It burns her cheeks and sparks the exasperation lying just beneath the fear and pain. Why is Mulder the only one to keep her company at the witching hour?

 

“Why?”

 

“You need to be resting.”

 

“I’ve had enough rest, Mulder.”

 

“Scully, those pills will help you.”

 

“I know damn well what those pills will do. I don’t need to be mothered.” The frustration sears through her empty stomach.

 

“Hey, I don’t want to argue.”

 

Why does she do this? A better question is: what about him drags it out of her? Why is Fox Mulder the first and last person on her mind each and every day? When did he become the sun and the moon? When did she begin to rely on him so heavily?

 

“Why did you call me, Scully?” She’s not sure she knows, or wants to know, the answer to his question. The irritation leaves her; in its wake the fear grows stronger.

 

“I knew you’d answer.” It’s a cop-out and a bad one, at that. It’s all she has the energy to offer up.  

 

“I have woken your mother from a dead sleep at four in the morning. You know she would take your call.”

 

“Mulder, I—”

 

“ _Dana.”_ The way he says her name, in that tone; it conveys so many things. Things left unsaid. It takes the air from her lungs. There’s nothing left in her to push him away. “I’ll stay on the line until I’m sure you are asleep.”

 

Her throat grows heavy with tears, chin wobbling in exhaustion and defeat. He is doing just as she knew he would. Wrapping her in the embrace of his warm voice. Calming her thoughts, guiding her back from the mouth of hell.

 

“You moving?”

 

“Mm.” A weak grunt is all that escapes her. She doesn’t trust her voice, not just yet.

 

“Okay. Don’t forget the water.” There’s a rustling, the tell-tale graze of fabric on leather. “And take one of those pills.”

 

With the television off, the bright green of the VCR display seems overpowering. A minute streak of light in her darkened apartment.

 

“Turn on the little lamp behind the couch. Leave it on like you do when I’m there.” Good idea. Things are better this way. Haloed in a dim amber glow. The same glow that keeps Mulder’s demons at bay now fights her own.

 

Ever since the night Pfaster broke in, Mulder has stayed with her. With the physical threat neutralized, the only thing left was to protect her from the endless horrors her mind could conjure up.

 

Wherever she is, he isn’t far. His steadfast guard never wavering. Not ever deterred by her insistence on being self-reliant; at the police station, the emergency room after she succumbed to shock giving her statement, his apartment, and eventually hers.

 

Every night, he has slept pressed behind her, keeping her demons at bay. Only moving to the couch with the steady reinstatement of her independence. Now swiftly approaching the fourth week post-attack, she decided that tonight is her first of many battles to fight alone. In a way she was nearly there. Almost. Closer to stability.

 

“How you doin’ over there?”

 

“M’getting up.” The full prescription resting on the coffee table rattles brightly, piercing the cool silence.

 

Dragging her feet, she travels the seemingly endless trek to the bathroom, doing her best to prolong the inevitable.

 

“Grab some Kleenex while you’re there.” Another Mulder yawn. She swallows roughly past the acrid tang of the pill hanging on her tongue. Trazodone. She hates them. But can’t contest their efficacy, having prescribed them herself a few times.

 

Tissues tucked under her arm, blanket over her shoulder, and water in hand; Scully stands at the foot of her bed.

 

“What’s wrong?”  How does he know her so well?

 

“I’m—,” She could lie or simply hang up. “I don’t know.” The tremble is back. Emanating from her belly.

 

“What is it?”

 _‘Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.’_ She wants to scream, and cry, and laugh all in one breath.

 

“I don’t know, _Mulder_.” The quiver has infiltrated her speech. She clears her throat, starting anew. “I just...can’t. Plain and simple.”

 

“Do you want me to—”

 

“No. Uh, no. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll—I shouldn’t have called.”

 

He sighs deeply. His fatigue, both with the late hour and her closing herself off, seeps through the headset.

 

“I am here. Right here, Scully. Ready to help. But, you’ve gotta meet me halfway.” She can feel him scrubbing a broad hand over the scruff of his face.

 

“I--It’s alright now. I shouldn’t have bothered—“

 

“What—I— _No_. You could never bother—“

 

“I’m f—“

 

“Don’t tell me you are ‘fine’,” his tone is firm.

 

_‘But, I am! I am fine. He’s dead. I’m fine. He’s dead.’_

 

_He’s dead…_

 

“Talk to me, Scully.” The unyielding demand is a shock to the system. Her train of rationale jumps the track.

 

“Honestly. It’s better. I’m working it out. I’m better.”

 

He waits her out. Content to stay on the line until she relents.

 

“Scully. It’s me. Let me help you. _Please._ ” The warm silky tendrils of his voice wind around her defences. Doing their best to snuff out the insecurity in her that they seek.

 

“It’s just—I—Everytime I step foot in here, I—” She can barely breathe. The sting of phantom cuts and abrasions make her skin crawl. “He’s _still here, Mulder.”_ A dull ache blooms over the angry green mottling of her healing ribs. Trying persistently to dislodge the dry pocket trapping her tongue, she swallows; her pulse thrums in her ears.

 

“ _Scully_.” The hum of her name bleeds into the torrent of grief and tumult.

 

A solitary tear burns over her flushed cheek, breaking the dam. She hadn’t noticed the swimming of her vision; eyes locked on the Bible resting on the chest of drawers. The black of the leather traps the streetlight filtering in from the window.

 

 _“_ Scully?” He feels so distant. The anemic representation of his voice doesn’t seem to be enough to drive away the darkness anymore. _Why is Alexandria so far away?_ “Scully, are you there? I—I’m coming over.”

 

“No. It’s okay, Mul—“

 

“It really isn’t. It isn’t ‘okay’. Go back to the couch if you feel better out there.”

 

A few tears make their way over her cheeks, anger and lament; her thoughts so conflicted. She doesn’t want him to coddle her, yet she yearns for him to be near. _Why do I feel like this? Why?_

 

 _“_ You’re driving over?” She sounds hollow, the strife of her self-reckoning carving out all she has left.

 

“Of course, Scully.” He speaks as if he hasn’t been waiting for her permission. “I’m heading out the door right now.”

 

“I can do this.” She wants to prove herself—needs to prove herself—to him that she is the same woman he knew before. Resilient. Able to hold her own.  

 

“There is not a doubt in my mind. I know that you can and you _will,”_ he exhales. “But, Scully, you don’t have to do it _alone.”_

 

She takes a deep breath and returns to the light of the living room; sinking into the couch, exhausted. “I know.” Her words so soft and light they evaporate in the cool early morning air.

 

“Good. I’ll be there in seventeen minutes.”

 

She’s clutching the headset with a death grip, willing herself to remember that this place is her home, her refuge _._ Burrowing under the blanket, she realizes that it feels empty now. There’s something missing. Mulder is on his way, coming to rescue her from herself; and suddenly, it doesn’t seem quite so horribly vacant.

 

“Scully? You still there?”

 

“Mmhm.” Her body continues to flood her eyes of its own volition. How she has tears to cry when she feels numb a mystery all it’s own. They’re large and silent; cascading over her cheeks to anoint her skin with the brine of her turmoil.

 

She lays her head down, curling into herself; folding her knees to her chest, her lungs pulling in a deep stuttering breath.

 

“We’ll go back to my place. You can have the bed.” He’s sweet and gentle. Smoothing over the rough edges of her frayed nerves. “I’ll get bagels tomorrow morning, and I’ll even let you pick the movie this time. We can get some take-out, maybe even catch the game. Go out if you feel like it. How ‘bout that?”

 

“S’good.” Her limbs grow heavy. She’s sure to tuck the phone to her ear. Her lifeline. Her Mulder.

 

She’s doing her best to conceal her hitching breaths, unable to really carry on any kind of conversation.

 

“Is it something I said? I’m so used to putting my foot in my mouth...” the cheeky grin in his voice poorly masks his concern. He wants so badly to be there for her. She’s not accustomed to it, allowing someone to help carry her burdens. Letting someone in.   

 

“I d-don’t know how.” Her voice is brittle.  

 

”’Don’t know how’ to what?” She can’t tell him. She promised herself she wouldn’t. Not now. Not like this. It aches in her chest and burns her throat.

 

“I-I can’t.” It’s the medicine, the fear, the defeat, him. It’s him; stirring her emotions. They swim through her mind and alter her thoughts. Washing away her long-standing verdict to approach their relationship with disciplined pragmatism.

 

“Scully, you’re scaring me here.”

 

“I don’t know how to let you in,” the words tremble with the uncertainty that rushes her endocrine system. Yet there is solace that comes from admitting her vulnerability. It could be the drug, conjuring her courage. However, the pounding of her heart and the necessity to assure him that she never means to push him away encourages her to continue.

 

Breathing for the both of them; the sound of his respiration undetectable in this moment. Making the impact of the next statement even greater, if at all possible.

 

“I don’t know how to open myself to you the way that I want to.”

 

“I--Jesus.” His throat sounds damp, thick with something she can’t quite put her finger on. “I want so much-to-to have this conversation. I just--”

 

“I shouldn’t--”

 

“No. _God, no,_ Scully. I want to talk about this, we _need_ to talk about this. But, not now.” His words make her tremble. Mulder clears his throat; uneasy in her silence, he continues. “I care for you _so much_. Too much to rush into any discussion you’re not ready to have.”

 

She groans, at odds with the bevy of introspective hurdles her mind is attempting to leap. She’s groggy, hungry, cold and lonely and terrified and bereft of a love she hasn’t really even begun to scratch the surface of. At the moment, she can’t bring herself to care.

 

“I’m about ten minutes away, maybe less. And before you ask, yes, I am driving over the speed limit. But the parkway is quiet, nobody’s out, no need to worry,” he chuckles tensely. ”Getting sleepy over there?”  

 

“I think so.” The medicine slips and slides through her system, swathing her in a soporific gauze. Teetering on the edge of wakefulness, she endeavors to determine how receptive she will be. How exactly to warm herself to the fading novelty of his affection.

 

She dozes; Mulder continues to speak to her. The steady cadence of his voice lulling her further into sedation.

 

Time expands and contracts; there’s a key sliding into the door. A solid weight disturbing her cocooned legs and feet. Strong fingers trail across her forehead and settle under her jaw.

 

“Mm.” She absently presses into their touch.

 

“Your chariot awaits,” Mulder’s lingering kiss to her hairline is feather-light.

 

“Huh?” Scully’s motor functions are beyond reach; it’s all she can do to mumble in response.

 

“Going to help you up now, Sleeping Beauty,” His words are lighthearted, bordering on affectionate.

 

“Hm. Mul’ner?”

 

“The one and only.” His large hands cradle her shoulder blades, gathering her upper body to his chest. He is warm and inviting and safe. Guard down, the parameters she had set for herself forgotten, she tucks her face into his neck. Her space. The small portion of territory she permitted herself to claim as her own.

 

The medication tugs at her once again; Mulder runs his hands over her back, scratching lightly, hoping to call her to the surface.

 

“Scully? You in there?” Her lethargic grunt makes him smile.  He drops his nose into her hair as she nestles herself closer.

 

“Okay. I’m thinking we’re going to stay here tonight.” He waits for her to speak, unsure of her state of mind. She doesn’t seem to protest; Scully gives no reply, content to lay against him. Mulder shakes his head, speculating on how long she’ll play possum.

 

He pulls her into his lap, pressing her slight frame tightly to him. He is struck by the way it feels to hold her, he could do it for hours. Most days, that’s all he wants to do.

 

She stirs when he lays down, draping her over his chest.

 

“Mmph…” She stretches like a cat, partially unraveling herself from the blanket. “Hey.” Her voice hoarse; she cautiously meets his gaze, eyes large and wet, glistening in the soft light.  

 

“‘Hey’, yourself. How you feelin’?” Head back down on his chest, her arms slip from under her body to bracket his trunk, legs tangling with his, fitting herself in every available space.

 

“Better now,” the heat of her candor holds more potency than the breathy exhale that carries it.

 

“Well, I’m here.” He kneads at the firm tension of her lumbar. Mulder presses her closer for a moment, releasing her with a sigh.

 

She breathes as if the air burns, her limbs contracting around him. The faint choking sound she makes pierce his heart. Her lungs draw air on a trembling gasp.

 

“Scully.” Whimpers weave their way unbidden through her core; bleeding from an ancient ache tucked deep in her chest. Lodged behind her heart; raw and open, striking her with a new ferocity. But she’s tired. She is _so damn_ tired.

 

“ _Scully_.” Mulder draws her further up his body, folding her cries into the crook of his neck.

 

He grips her, kisses every inch of her he can reach; pledging a silent vow, one that he has already made hundreds of times before. To give her everything he has and more.

 

Her breathing slows; save a few hiccups here and there, she grows still. The only movement for a while is the steady rustle of Mulder’s hands, passing over her body. Attempting to infuse her with warmth and life; grounding her, casting a tether to the abyss in the hopes she will use it to pull herself back.

 

Her lips brush the harsh stubble of his jaw. Hot, damp little things, imbued with velvet and honey and the salt of too many tears.

 

It’s subtle, over before it even begins; a passing caress surely to be missed, but his senses are acutely attuned to the feel of her.

 

She shifts to settle lower on his body. Ear pressed to his sternum, this is her favorite place, the steady beat of his heart a comfort Scully now allows herself to openly embrace.

 

Mulder can’t help the chuckle that momentarily disrupts her task; the sweet little hums and snuffles she emits while seemingly trying to burrow under his skin endear her to him more than he thought possible.

 

“Comfortable?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Mind if I turn on the TV?” He’s restless now; even after months of exposure, his body and mind are slow to acclimate to the warm weight of her against him.

 

She grumbles something akin to a ‘no’ and Mulder reaches for the remote. Volume low, he’s skimming through the channels when he finds it.

 

“Hey, Scully. _Sleepless in Seattle_ ’s on. Just started too.” He combs through her hair, searching for her face under its cover. Steady Scully snores are all to be heard.

 

Scully never thinks he pays attention to her choice of film, but he does. He always has. Ignoring the replay of the game on channel six, Mulder leaves the movie on, dropping the remote and resuming his hand’s gentle dance over her back.

 

Tom Hanks paces around his character’s apartment. Speaking of loss, love and fear of capturing it again. Scully’s relaxed breathing amplifies the soothing murmur of the television.   

 

“Time will heal,” he whispers to himself. Mouth anchored in her tresses, Mulder’s mumbled comfort is felt rather than heard. “One of these days, it will heal both of us.”


End file.
